


It's Not A Metaphor, It's Subtext

by michaelLemieux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, canon character death bc its hamlet, hamlets death scene, kinda sad, only vaguely rewritten, players au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelLemieux/pseuds/michaelLemieux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short thing for ratpenatu because they're lovely and you should go give them kisses. Michael and Lucifer are performing the final scene of Hamlet, and we all can read between the lines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not A Metaphor, It's Subtext

**Author's Note:**

> My puns are wonderful, thank you very much, and please excuse the Katy Perry reference at the end. It was begging to be there. Besides, it's funny. Right?

Michael stumbles on stage. The rapier is planted falsely in his chest, but he spews blood all the same. Luke jumps to his feet with a wrangled cry and seems to awaken Michael. He grabs the sword from his chest with a loud cry of pain and plants it firmly into Dean’s. Shouts of dialogue and more movement follow. Claudius is killed and a shout rings off stage. Michael glares about him at the onlookers and as he finally collapses, Luke runs forward to catch him in his arms. 

The crowd is dead silent as the lights dim on everyone but Luke and the wounded Hamlet. 

Michael’s head falls back and to the side. His hand reaches out and touches Laertes’ prone form. 

“Heaven make thee free of it,” he croaks, stopping to cough and sputter, Luke responding by mindlessly shushing and cooing, trying to make him more comfortable in his arms. Michael chokes out a laugh and looks still at Laertes. “I follow thee,” he marks disdainfully. 

Luke as Horatio shakes his head and pulls again at Hamlet, trying to pull him closer and make him meet his tearing eyes. Michael turns to smile to him, their faces inches apart. 

“I am dead, Horatio,” Michael whispers, his voice shuddering over the words and tears blocking his vision of Luke’s pained face. He pulls himself up by Luke’s shoulders and looks behind them at the queen, spitting, “Wretched queen! Adieu!” Then he glares at the frightened and shocked faces of the group that was stiff in their seats. “You! That look pale and tremble at this chance! That are but mutes! Or audiences to this act!” Michael spits over Luke’s shoulder at them and they collectively shudder and flinch. “Had I but time--!” Hamlet seizes in Luke’s arms and falls to a fit of coughing where it seems he cannot find his breath. Horatio’s face pales and he holds tighter to Michael’s trembling and suddenly frail seeming frame. 

“As this fell sergeant, death, is strict in his arrest,” he whispers to Horatio, arms moving across Luke’s back and briefly embracing him before glaring at the spectators on the stage again. 

“O, I could tell you--!” he starts, shouting, and falling again to a breathless fit. 

Luke pulls Michael down into a prostrate position and blocks everyone but himself from the player’s view. 

Hamlet smiles weakly. “But let it be. Horatio,” he pauses and meets his friend’s watery gaze. “I am dead,” he sobs. 

Luke frantically shakes his head and presses his hand to Michael’s wound, unable to speak, but seizing himself under silent sobs. 

“Thou livest; report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied,” he gently urges, taking Luke’s arm and squeezing it reassuringly. 

Luke finally breaks his silence and, with passion, speaks, “Never believe it!” He falters and holds Michael tighter to his chest. 

“I am more an antique Roman than a Dane,” he murmurs to his Hamlet and pauses long, staring at Michael’s face. 

The words have so many meanings, but the one that Michael reads in Luke’s eyes is ‘I love you.’ 

Hamlet tries to bring a hand up to Horatio’s face but he seizes again and the hand falls to his chest, Michael coughing and spluttering and curling fetally into his chest. Luke’s eyes widen and his breath is suddenly as lost as Michael’s. He grabs desperately for the poisoned chalice from where it lay at his feet. 

His voice shakes as he says, “Here’s yet some liquor left.” He lifts the cup to his lips, but in one last burst of energy Michael knocks it from his hand. 

“O good Horatio,” he murmurs. “What a wounded name,” he looks up from the overturned chalice to Luke’s face. Hamlet pulls at the bloodied shirt of his lover, and Luke pulls him up into his arms and holds him so they are face to face. Michael rests his forehead against Luke’s. “If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,” Hamlet whispers, huddling more tightly into Luke’s embrace. There’s more to the line than just what Hamlet would be feeling, and the player hopes that if it is noticed, it is also reciprocated. Michael takes in a breath and meets Luke’s gaze, the gaze he had closed his eyes against, and his lips tremble, on the verge of saying something else. 

Luke’s facade falls and it’s only Michael that can see it, but for all the times they’ve rehearsed this scene, it seems now that real emotion has entered into the mix. 

“Absent thee from felicity awhile, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story,” Michael exhales, rushing through the lines and unable to hold Luke’s gaze. His fingers curl guiltily at Luke’s shoulder. 

Another sob shakes the chest of the man holding him, and Michael turns his head to over Luke’s shoulder, as Horatio’s fingers claw at Hamlet’s torn and bloodstained shirt. 

Michael’s body gives a shudder and Luke tightens his hold on him. 

“O, I die, Horatio,” Michael sobs, embracing his friend as tight as he could, his whole body shivering. Michael pulls back to see Luke’s tear soaked face and, his body still shaking, begs, “Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him, with the occurrents, more or less, which have solicited.” Michael sharply inhales and Luke gasps with him. 

Michael fights to keep his eyes open and touches Luke’s face, struggling to sit forward like he intends to kiss. He inhales the shuddering breath that’s an inch from him and presses his body flush to Horatio’s. When he’s within a centimeter of the plush lips, he whispers, “The rest… is silence.” 

Michael falls away, dead, and the younger of them let’s out a soul-wrenching wail, like his heart’s been ripped out, and he curls over Michael as if protecting him from death itself. 

“Now cracks a noble heart,” he chokes through sobs. “Good night, sweet prince,” he murmurs lovingly to Michael’s cheek, still holding him. “Let flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,” he prays, kissing Michael’s forehead and holding him still. 

The rest of the play goes smoothly, and when the cast takes a final bow, Luke’s hand intertwines with Michael’s, tugging him off stage and kissing him senseless. 

“Too real, sweet prince,” Luke whispers to Michael, holding him close in the dark corner of the the backstage. 

Michael hugs back and doesn’t think about the kiss. His first, and their first together. 

“It won’t happen again, noble heart,” Michael replies, pulling back to kiss Luke again. 

They answer questions on stage for a while and leave the playhouse holding hands. It seemed natural for them, and they never felt the need to ask what the other was thinking about or if there were second thoughts. No regrets, just love. But they never did perform Hamlet again.


End file.
